


Joke's on You, Drink's on me

by FlyingAnita (orphan_account)



Category: Suicide Squad (2016)
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Powers, Domestic, Floyd is drunk, Fluff, M/M, Rick and June live together and it's cute, Rick is left to damage control
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-13
Updated: 2016-11-13
Packaged: 2018-08-30 17:13:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8541787
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/FlyingAnita
Summary: Rick was pretty sure that the last time he'd been called a “tall glass of water” was 1995. By his grandmother.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Wanted to do something other than sit and mope about I dont wanna die. Here ya go

 

It had been a while since Rick had been in this part of town. Hell, it had been a while since he had been in this  _ country. _ He'd just gotten through a full tour in the Middle-East, and he was going to take the opportunity of being back to go to every bar he remembered from his old life, good or bad. Tonight, it was a place called  _ “San Diego's Dunce.” _ He didn't remember it, but it looked like it had been around for a while, and it was on the same street as June's apartment complex.

 

June was an old friend. The two had met in basic, and at first Rick thought that they were going to become more than friends, but June was very quick to shoot down that idea, insisting that she was married to her work. So Rick let it go.

 

Now, Rick was crashing at June's place, temporarily, while he was in town. He was still waiting for someone to buy his old townhouse so that the could move in downtown. It was a long, tedious process, but as long as June was there for him, which she always was, he'd be fine.

 

Just fucking fine. Promise.

 

Which was the reason he was sitting at this bar, three glasses of tequila into the night. Out of the night, more like. It was two thirty-one in the morning, according to the fancy clock that hung on the wall behind the bar.

 

This place was pretty, with antique-looking tables and crates of old bourbon sitting in the back. The bar was a deep, rich mahogany, with a thick sheet of glass sitting on top of it. The surface was riddled with age-old iron nails, the perfect thing to hit your hand on to order another drink.

 

Rick was halfway between sober and drunk and contemplating whether or not to go home now. He looked wistfully at the olive in the bottom of his glass, imagining that it was an eyeball, an angel watching over him and blinking in morse code, telling him that it this was his only chance to give it up. He sighed, throwing a twenty onto the bar and standing up. As he shrugged his jacket on, the bartender—a young man with a beard and an Australian accent—nodded to him, a small goodnight.

 

The bar was empty by now, although it was never really full, being a quiet place to hunker down and be lonely, or have a long talk with a good friend. There were two people left in the bar apart from Rick—the bartender, and a man in dark black clothes, sitting at the end of the bar nursing a tall glass of vodka. He didn't look at Rick, but he had been there all night, and as Rick turned to leave, he downed the glass in front of him in one go, setting his own money onto the counter.

 

The bartender winked at him as he stood to chase after the attractive military man, whispering “Go get 'em,” and accepting the glare that was thrown his way.

 

Rick had stopped in front of the door, checking his phone for a message from June. Nothing. 

 

All of a sudden, a heavy arm was thrown around his shoulders, and a strong, slurring voice said, “You look like a tall glass of water, and man, have I had a lot to drink.”

 

Rick looked sharply at the man attached to his shoulder. He had deep, dark skin, and the best smile. He looked over Rick's body with bright eyes, seeming more and more animated by the second. 

 

He was captivating, but he was drunk. And frankly, Rick was unimpressed. He would have loved to take this man home, but he just wasn’t the best with pick-up lines, and that was something that Rick looked for in a man. “Sorry, bud,” Rick said. “I think that you need some  _ actual _ water before we have that talk.”

 

After a long, one-sided discussion about the origins of vodka, then Soviets, and eventually communism-- _ with a K, because it's Russian-- _ Rick managed to gently drag the drunken flirt back to the safe and shared apartment of one June Moone.

 

She opened the door in an attractive nightdress, with white sleeves and a translucent skirt. He averted his eyes as he held the man up a bit straighter.

 

“Oooh,” June crooned, “Who's this?”

 

Rick shrugged. He'd never been given a name. He took June's bewilderment as an opportunity to shovel the mass into her arms. It went willingly.

 

Rick walked past the two newfound besties by mere force of personal space invasion and into the kitchen, closing the door behind him.

 

“So?” June asked.

 

Rick pulled a glass down from the cabinets and filled it with ice. “So what?” He responded.

 

“So what do we do with him? This is the first time you've brought me a man to take care of who you didn't fuck silly first.”

 

Rick filled the glass with water. “Set the poor fella down on the couch. I doubt that you shouting into his ear will aid him in any important way.”

 

“I don't see how it would help him in any unimportant way,” she said, but she lowered her tone and laid him down--none to gently--on the couch.

 

Rick grabbed a lemon and a knife and walked back into the living room, water glass in hand. He set the glass down on the table in front of  the couch and coerced the nearly-unconscious man into a sitting position, being sure not to stab him anywhere.

 

“Hey.  _ Hey.  _ Drink that.” Rick ordered him around gently but firmly, ignoring his small side notes and attempts at eye contact while pushing the water into his palm.

 

It didn't take long for him to get the entire thing down. He looked at the glass for a long moment before Rick took it from him. He cut the lemon in half and used his incredibly focused finger strength to squeeze all of the juice out and into the glass.

 

It dripped down onto the ice and through to the bottom of the glass. He couldn't stop all of the seeds from slipping in as well, but he managed to get all of the juice from both halves.

 

Even though Rick was mostly used to ceaseless babbling--thanks to Harley--he can't help but notice the fact that in his drunken state, the man that he stills has no name to the face of absolutely cannot stop spitting pit and endless source of intelligence.

 

Rick hands him the glass of lemon juice. It's only a small bit, but it’ll do the trick. “Drink this too,” he says, softly. He knows that it will be a very different taste from both the alcohol and the water, and he hopes it'll clear his head a bit.

 

The man's face pulls into a sour expression, his lips pursing and eyes screwing shut.

 

“Fuck--" the man sputters. “Trying to poison me already?”

 

Rick simply takes the glass away. He decides to stand, putting the lemon halves and the knife in the glass on top of the ice.

 

He shakes the man's shoulder in order to get him to look at him. “What's your name, man?”

 

The response is slurred and slightly cut off, but Rick gets the idea. “Alright Loyd,” he says, hoping it's right, “You're welcome to stay the night, but don't quote me on that, because sometimes June gets mad if I let them stay the night. You can sleep on the couch, and you can leave if you want to, but know that June will willingly shoot you if she finds you doing wrong and we'll feed you in the morning.” Rick smiled at the confused expression and pushed him back on the couch, encouraging him to pass out.

 

He coughs once, and then he's gone.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Let me know what you think with a comment. This'll have two chapters total.


End file.
